Astoria throws herself into minutiae. It's the only way to keep herself from going completely mad with frustration. There has been no word, either from the Auror Department or from Narcissa. She knows perfectly well that it was stupid to expect anything after the tangent they've been going along, but hope springs eternal, and the close they get to Christmas, the more desperately she hopes.

Surely it can't go on much longer.

Surely.

She doesn't want to think about Christmas.

It's a time for traditions, and this year nothing will be the same. Even last year, when it had felt like the most chaotic time of her life, with Draco spiriting Scorpius away to London, he had deigned to come back for the holidays and resume their traditions, at least for a few days. It had been the most wonderful present Draco had ever given her.

Scorpius.

There is nothing on earth she loves more than watching his face alight on Christmas morning; full of the wonders of childhood, on the day when even magic becomes more magical.

Or maybe she was always just more willing to indulge him on Christmas day, and take pleasure in his childishness.

What is she going to do if she cannot be with him this year?

Because there isn't a single hope that Draco will relent and pause in his blatant desecration of their family just because it's the twenty-fifth of December.

And it's coming too fast.

It's coming too fast.

And what is she going to do?

"You're ruining that one, Tori."

"Oh. Sorry."

She discards the paper flower she'd been folding by hand; she's had no mind for magic since coming home, with too much filling her head to concentrate, even for origami. Daphne set her the important task of making corsages from pages of her favourite childhood books. It is a pity project, Astoria is all too aware of that, but she accepts it.

The first night home, the sisters had stayed up all night as they once had, turning over the more delicate and most important aspects of their lives. And, as it once did, that meant the subject of boys.

"Did you know?" Astoria whispered to her sister, twisting the hem of her quilt between her fingers – the colours faded, the stitching thread-bare, but the feeling so wonderfully familiar it filled her heart. "Did you know that Draco and Theodore Nott were… were…" She still couldn't say it out loud. Just thinking it, just approaching the thought, turned her stomach so violently she always felt like she was either going to throw up or pass out.

But Daphne caught on pretty quickly. They'd always been close – at least up to the point where Narcissa Malfoy had passed her over in favour of her little sister – complete sentences weren't always necessary.

Astoria watched her frown in thought, and somehow that made it worse. That Daphne didn't have the immediate answer – No – that she wanted made it as real as a plain 'yes'. If Daphne had laughed and told her she was stupid for believing anything Blaise Zabini said, she could've shrugged it all off as a big misunderstanding. She might even have forgiven Draco, and offered an olive branch, let him return home with Scorpius. She might've been willing to work to pick up the ground-up shards of their marriage.

If there was anything left to pick up.

If there had been anything there in the first place.

"Well," said Daphne, lying beside Astoria and staring up at the low, sloping ceiling of her attic room, hung with bunting made of handkerchiefs. "It was no secret that Nott was a fairy. It was certainly no secret that he and Draco were close. But I suppose I just assumed they were friends. Come to think of it—" She rolled over on her stomach, propping her head up on one elbow. "I feel like something changed Fourth Year – ours, not yours – after Christmas, after the Yule Ball. I think they were closer after that. And they were already closer than close. It just felt… different."

Astoria's teeth ground. She wished she could remember for herself, but Draco was nothing more than a disembodied presence in her memory, and she doesn't recall Nott at all.

"But, then again," Daphne continued, "everything changed that year, didn't it? That was the beginning of the end. And in the grand scheme of things, Tori, whatever Malfoy and Nott got up to was pretty inconsequential."

"Inconsequen—"

"I said was," said Daphne quickly before Astoria exploded and summoned their parents in. "I mean, look, it happens all the time. You just never know about it."

"It happens to other people," said Astoria through her teeth. "It does not happen to me. And it most certainly does not happen to my husband!"

Daphne winced in sympathy. "What're you going to do?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean just that – what are you going to do?" She pushed herself up to sit close to Astoria who suddenly couldn't meet her eye. "You said they disowned him, is that true? They really went through with it?"

Astoria nodded, biting her lip when Daphne breathed, "Shit."

"I know. I wasn't expecting it. I don't think anyone was. But that's what it's been like. For so long. One shock after another."

"And they did because—"

She swallowed a lump in her throat, the memory of that hellish morning – of that hellish day – burned in her chest. "We've had an Auror tracking Draco. Or trying to. He's been concentrating on Nott because, obviously, he's closer to Draco than anyone. And Nott told him… everything. He brought a report to the Manor. He told us about them. Their history. And then she just did it. Just like that."

Daphne stared. "On a whim?"

"No. No, of course not. I don't think so." Astoria wiped her face with both hands, pushing back her hair. "I-I think it's been building for a long while now." Then she gave a shaky laugh. "Honestly, I want to disown him most of the time too."

"Has it really been that bad, Tori?"

Astoria couldn't stand the softness of Daphne's voice; hated the sympathy and the pity that was never there before. This wasn't how they were supposed to be together.

"It hasn't been anything like I expected," she admited. "Nothing like Mother and Father told me it would be. They said it might be difficult in the beginning but eventually we'd work out how we would be and everything would settle down and be perfect. Just like them. And I've been waiting for that. Waiting and working. And it's all still as awful as it was in the beginning. He's just as awkward, just as uncomfortable. Maybe even more so. And I don't understand. Or I didn't. I suppose, at least, I have an explanation." Her mouth twisted in disgust. "I suppose I should be glad it isn't me."

Daphne sat a little more forward, stealing a pillow to lean on "What do you mean?"

Heat rose hard and fast in Astoria's face. It might not be her, but it was still humiliating.

"He refuses to touch me. Or let me touch him. It's like he can't stand me. And I thought it was me. For the longest time. Because you know what his reputation was like at Hogwarts. And the way he was with Parkinson. I was certain I was repulsive. And I didn't know what to do." It hurt to say it out loud, all the deepest, ugliest thoughts she'd tried so hard not to think all those years. Taking a deep, faltering breath, she closed her eyes. "But it wasn't me," she said. "It was never me. It was always him and he made me believe it was my fault."

"Well of course it wasn't you," said Daphne very matter-of-factly. "Just look at you."

It was probably the nicest thing Daphne has ever said to her, and Astoria smiled through the ache in her eyes.

But then Daphne asked again: "So what are you going to do? Divorce him?"

"No," she said automatically. "No, I am still a Malfoy, regardless of Draco. Scorpius too. When he comes home, everything will continue as it ought."

"So you're just going to be alone?"

"I have been alone my entire marriage," Astoria snapped. "It will make no difference whether Draco is present or not. There's more to life than sex, Daphne."

Her sister quirked an amused eyebrow and Astoria looked away, blushing.

"I can live with it," she muttered. "Or, more aptly, without it. My family is more important."

"Why are you so loyal to them? There'd be no shame in cutting loose. Or less shame, anyway. Find someone else. Start again. Take Scorpius and—"

"Scorpius is the Malfoy heir. That means something. I don't expect you to understand."

Daphne huffed, "I'm glad I don't understand. I hope to never understand. You know, it's funny. I was so jealous of you when Mother told us you were to marry Draco. I would've given anything to be in your position, getting money and power and Draco Malfoy. But I'm marrying Steven in one month, and he doesn't have anything of much, but I'm so excited for our life, Tori. I can't think of anything I could ever want more."

"Well that's just great for you, isn't it?"

And Daphne had just smiled back at her because finally she had nothing to prove anymore. She had won. And they both knew it.

But Astoria doesn't care.

Maybe life isn't what she dreamt it would be when she was a little girl, but fairy-tales are only fairy-tales anyway. This is real, and she'll be damned sure she'll make the best of it.

Despite Draco Malfoy.

"Is Muggle Christmas different to Wizarding Christmas?" Draco asks when Harry and Ginny come down for breakfast in pointy red hats with white trimming, proclaiming that today they are going to 'do Christmas'. The Potter children cheers, though Draco definitely picks a low mutter of, 'Finally,' from James.

Harry laughs, offering Draco a pair of reindeer antlers decorated with small silver bells attached to a headband. He ignores Draco's protest. "No, of course not. Don't you lot decorate before the twenty-fifth or does it all just magically appear on Christmas day?"

"Well, no…" Draco hooks his son as he passes and jams the antlers down on Scorpius's head to save himself the humiliation. Scorpius is thrilled. "I think Mother usually has it all up the week before, for the Christmas ball. But actually, yes, it pretty much does magically appear. I suppose I never really paid much attention."

"That's really sad," says Harry and Draco flushes. "I mean," he continues as they watch Ginny trying to wrangle the protesting Potter brothers into tinsel leis, "the best part of Christmas is the lead up, isn't it? The decorating and the putting up of the tree. Even the Dursleys let me have fun on decorating day. It was pretty much the only day of the year I felt like part of the family."

"Now that's sad, Potter. No, stop it. Get off—"

"Come on, it's just holly. You have to wear something Christmassy. That's the rules."

"It is the rules," says Ginny, coming up from behind and tying something into his hair. "Be a good sport, Draco."

With the utmost reluctance, Draco agrees to his good sport status and lets Ginny weave sprigs of holly through his hair, topping it with a red bow.

"There," she says with enormous satisfaction. "Very fetching. Red suits you."

"Shut up," Draco snaps when he catches Harry smirking. "Come here." He snatches the box of offending décor and picks the most Slytherin item he can find – a silver dove with emerald-green plumage in its tail – and pins it deftly to Harry's head. "Very fetching, Potter."

Harry shrugs. "I can live with it."

The Potter children are as excited as if it were Christmas day itself. Lily has dressed herself up in her very best party dress – a huge confection which billows out in a most satisfying manner when she spins. Which she does continuously until she falls over and bumps her knee. Albus and James both wear pyjamas covered in snowmen, and they've leant Scorpius a pair with a huge reindeer's face emblazoned on the front to go nicely with his tinkling head-gear; the nose an oversized pompom that looks like it isn't going to last the day.

It's baffling to Draco. And wonderful.

He'd always considered Hogwarts Christmases to be the height of wonderfulness, though thinking about them now it was probably more the delight of not being in the Manor, because really they were quite comparable; twenty-foot trees, decorated meticulously to tasteful specifications, blazing fires, delicious food, hiding behind said-twenty-foot trees with Theo, either playing hide and seek or kissing, depending on which year it was. Even post-Hogwarts, Theo could always be counted on to be with him at this time of year, even when it was no longer appropriate to either play or kiss. Even if it was just curling up at opposite ends of the sofa by the fire when Narcissa and Astoria had gone to bed, reading or talking or both. Theo said he came because he loved seeing Scorpius's face on Christmas morning. Draco had no doubt that was true, but he hoped there was a little more to it than that.

Christmas at the Potters is something entirely different and completely new. Least of all because there is no Theo, and there will be no Theo. Even when Christmas day comes in a week and a half.

Draco has made his peace with that. More or less.

At least he isn't home.

Christmas with his father was never fun.

He'd much rather be here, Theo-less, than at the Manor with both of them. Not that he'd've invited Theo with his father back there. Not that he'd ever want to inflict his father on his best friend. Not that Theo would want to come. As much as he'd pretend to.

Draco can only imagine.

He winces.

Music drifts in from the living room. A few tinkling bars open the piece, and then – as though rehearsed or compelled or cursed – all five Potters burst simultaneously into song; a very – very – tuneless rendition of something Draco presumes to be called 'Jingle Bells', given the very repetitive lyrics.

Scorpius automatically claps his hands over his ears, eyes wide with shock, making Albus laugh, though he doesn't pause in the song.

By the end, Draco is humming too. He can't help it. It's catchy.

"Alright," Harry yells, clapping his hands together to get everyone's attention. "Let's get this thing started! You lot clear the way. Draco, come help me with the tree?"

"Tree?" He tries to picture any tree near by, and can only think of the one in the back garden. A decidedly unChristmassy tree. "I've never cut down a tree before."

Harry and Ginny laugh as though that's absurd.

Draco doesn't get the joke.

"That's no problem, Draco. I'll show you the easy way." Harry starts towards the stairs, motioning for him to follow. "Let's go!"

Draco had been fairly certain there was only two floors to the Potters' house, but Harry retrieves a long stick with a hook on the end from a closet he hadn't noticed and, fitting it into exactly the right place on the ceiling, promptly managed to conjure a completely new staircase from nowhere without magic.

Draco stares at it, agape.

"Muggle magic," says Harry cheerfully. "Be carefully though, they're a bit rickety. Better than a ladder but not by much. Will probably need to replace them before next year. Should've probably replaced them before this year, come to think of it."

Draco regards the ladder warily. Because that was it is – a ladder – and Draco's never put much stock in ladders. He stands well back and lets Harry take the lead. The Boy Who Lived But Probably Not For Much Longer hoists himself up into the small hole that's only recently appeared in the ceiling.

Of course, the Manor has attics too – Draco is familiar with every inch of that damned place, and attics do tend to make for very good hiding places – but they're more like actual rooms in themselves. Not this strange, dead-space in the ceiling.

Though, when he struggles up into it after Harry, he realises that it isn't dead at all.

Certainly, it is not habitable; there is no floor to speak of, only boards placed in pathways across the long and breadth of the attic, and everything is dust. Dust, but not dirt. And Draco was half expecting insects and decay, at the very least spiders, but there's nothing. It's actually perfectly reasonable. And it's crammed full of boxes.

"Alright," says Harry, straightening up with some difficulty; Lumos illuminating the end of his wand. Which Draco quickly follows suit. "You take that way, I'll look through here. Pick out anything marked 'Christmas'. You'd've thought we'd've sorted all this crap out by now, we've been here long enough. Keep meaning to…"

Harry natters on, more to himself than to Draco, and Draco makes his own way towards the back of the attic, obediently looking for anything and everything marked 'Christmas'. He has to stoop almost in half to fit, though he's never considered himself or been considered by anyone else to be 'tall'. Still, the eaves brush the top of his head, taunting him and telling him to be careful. Draco is good at being careful.

There is so much stuff here; enough to fill two houses like Potter's. A whole life-time's worth of things; boxes marked by the kids' names, mostly James's, and there are Ginny's things here too. No doubt stuff carried over from her parents' house when she moved out. There's a corner dedicated to Hogwarts things, and one of the trunks seems to be the only thing actually bearing Harry's name at all. There is so little of him here, and yet this is his whole life.

Draco wonders how to frame the question, and then he thinks about his suitcase.

It had been so easy to pack light. It had been necessary at the time – throw everything in and get out, just get out. The clothes he normally wore, work things, personal things. It had always felt like he'd had so much, but when it actually came down to it, he needed nothing.

It had been the same going to school.

He had rooms of stationary and toys and books, and enough clothes to never have to wear the same thing twice in a month, but in the end Draco had taken nothing from home. There hadn't been the opportunity, besides everything else, but he hadn't missed anything. Hadn't needed anything.

Sometimes it's far better to leave things behind in the past where they belong.

"Oh! Here!"

Draco turns to see Harry rummaging through a particularly intimidating mountain of boxes; one in particular being very very long, another being so big Draco had mistaken it for a wall.

"Alright," says Harry, surveying the task with his hands on his hips. If you want to grab one of these, I'll take the other, and then we can come back for the littler stuff. This'll keep the others entertained for the time being, though. They love going through this stuff. It's like Christmas decorations are caught in a time warp, isn't it?" he says, looking at Draco with a laugh. "Like, as soon as you pack them away, you forget what's there." He looks fondly down at the box. "Completely new for the next year."

Draco doesn't know what to say to that. Quite honestly, he has no idea what Harry's talking about. His mother was always in charge of decorating the Manor for the holidays. He saw the decorations when they were up, but they were nothing remarkable – just the same silver baubles year after year. Who cares if they were forgotten? They were nothing special to remember.

"Wingardiam Leviosa."

They carefully maneuver the boxes through the tiny gap in the ceiling; Harry leading with the peculiarly long box, with Draco taking up the rear with the other. It's hard that it looks. His box barely fits through the space, and he's loathe to shrink if for fear of what's inside.

The cheer that rises from the Potters on their return to the living room is almost as deafening as their rendition of 'White Christmas', and Scorpius looks very much like his nerves are being frayed to pieces, albeit in the most pleasant circumstances possible. He isn't used to so much noise, even having lived with the Potters for so long by now. Scorpius has always been very adamant that he hates silence, though Draco is starting to expect that actually it's dissonance that Scorpius hates, rather than silence in itself. Relatable. Peace is precious, and *dissonance flourishes both in silence or noise. It's unpleasant in both. At home, silence always meant a storm was brewing, that trouble was around the next corner. The quieter Lucius was, the more caution one should take. Draco knew it. The elves knew it too. Even his mother made herself scarce once the silence reached a certain stifling point.

It was always only a matter of time before he exploded, and the longer it took to do so, the worse it was.

Actually, Christmases…

Draco's breath catches in his throat and the magic holding the box aloft stutters.

"Woah!" Ginny is quick as a whip. Quicker. And catches the box with her own magic before it crashes to the ground.

"Sorry," says Draco. "Sorry, I, ah—"

"No problem," she tells him with the easy smile she shares with Harry. "No damage done. I think. Let's see…"

Her children crowd around her as she carefully opens up the box; shoving each other to get the best vantage point.

Fingers push through his own as Scorpius slips to Draco's side, as overwhelmed as Draco is.

Draco hugs him close, settling down to sit on the floor.

Bit different, isn't it? he signs, and Scorpius nods, leaning his head against Draco's shoulder. He's shed the antlers the floor near the kitchen but he's still wearing his reindeer pyjamas, and his hair sticks up at a hundred different angles. It must be what comes of living with the Potters for so long.

Are you happy? Draco signs suddenly, and Scorpius twists to look at him properly, expression dipped into a question. I mean… It is Christmas. I know we went back last year. For Christmas. Do you miss it?

Scorpius hesitates before signing his reply, giving it a serious amount of thought. Then, No.

Not even your mother?

He shakes his head, then flings his arms up to a request for up!

Swinging his son high up into his arms, Draco can't decide whether to be relieved or sad. As in everything else, Astoria strove to follow Narcissa's lead as far as Christmas went; decorating and hosting, and ensuring that all ran with perfect efficiency. Plans that weren't particularly accommodating to young children. Or children at all, for that matter. Unlike Draco, Scorpius didn't like hiding and had very little desire to stay out the way. He liked people. He liked company. He liked life. Which inevitably filled the Manor with exasperated exclamations of, 'Scorpius, get out the way!' and, 'Scorpius, how many times do I have to tell you? Why don't you listen?' Before concluding with orders to the elves to, 'Take Master Scorpius back to his room and make sure that he stays there'. Draco would always take over, holing up with Scorpius in the nursery whilst Narcissa and Astoria got on with whatever made them happy. Things that did not include them.

Which is why it's so very baffling that they're so determined to have them back, when their presence only ever seemed like a nuisance before.

You only realise what you have when it's gone.

And he wonders how they're getting on now.

Draco can't think of anything sadder than a Christmas without his son. For all her coldness, he suspects that Astoria might feel similarly.

"Hey look! This one's mine!"

Scorpius peers over Albus's shoulder to see what he's looking at. Even when he gets a good view, he still isn't sure. It's like a glob of hardened icing sugar with a face drawn on in felt-tip pen. Albus shoves it in Scorpius's face, grinning. "It's my snowman!"

This is what the last hour has been like: going through the biggest box Scorpius has ever seen, and pulling out bits and pieces of weird things, all with hooks attached, every single one eliciting excited yells and long stories of their creations. Every. Single. One. And if Albus or James or Lily don't have the stories, their look to their parents who have the rest of them. Like the box of tiny birds on silver clips, so fragile they could be real – "A gift from Bill and Fleur, all the way from France." – and the huge glass baubles that look like they're filled with falling snow and real, tiny people – "I made that one when I was ten," says Mrs Potter. "Dad bought home a kit and we each made one." – and there are some that are tiny picture frames with the year carved underneath, and each one's a portrait of all of them, or whoever was there at the time.

The whole box is completely fascinating, like there's a whole life right there.

Scorpius loves it.

Why don't we have one? he asks his dad, clambering up onto the sofa between him and Mrs Potter. I want a box of things like this with stories and hooks.

We could start one, Draco signs back a little hesitantly. Do you want to?

Scorpius nods eagerly. How do we start one?

Draco glances down at the decorations scattered wide across the carpet, as treacherous as Lego and a hundred times more fragile. I'm not sure…

Harry sees the conversation from the corner by the window where he's building the tree – Building the tree! – and he pauses in his task. "You could start right now," he says.

They both stare at him with identical questioning expressions.

"Why don't you pick something?" Mrs Potter asks, sliding down to sit on the floor with her kids. "A gift to remember this Christmas by, for your own tree."

"Our own…"

But Scorpius is already on his hands and knees, rummaging through the decorations, picking out anything that catches his eye. He loves all of it – every single one – soo how is he supposed to pick? Especially at the sudden wonderful thought of their own tree! Their own tree… There is so much attached to those words because their own tree would mean that everything was fine and getting normal if not there already. Theirs. His and his dad's. Just theirs. It doesn't mean a tree at the Manor which are definitely too big and too many and not really special at all except they're only there at Christmas, but Christmas doesn't automatically mean special. Their tree would be special. Will be.

He has to pick the most perfect decoration he can find.

"Untangle these, would you?" A large ball of something glittery and clinking is passed over his head to his dad, but Scorpius doesn't pay much attention.

He thinks he's found it. The one. He scrabbles up to show his dad.

Draco is unpicking an unknowable quantity of strings of beads, half with magic, half with his fingers, and not getting very far with either. He looks up in expectation when Scorpius shoves his prize under his nose.

"Oh, not that, Scorp. I don't think they'll want to let that one go. Choose something else."

Scorpius almost deflates completely until Mrs Potter twists round to ask, "Which?"

He shows her.

It's a picture from with 2004 carved underneath, and all the Potters are standing in front of their decorated tree grinning. They look the most like themselves in this one, the most like the way Scorpius knows them. He wants this one. He wants to remember. He hopes Mrs Potter will tell his dad he's allowed to keep it.

She doesn't for a long time.

But she doesn't say no either, which is almost as good as yes.

Then she says something that's a thousand million times better than yes.

She says, "Why don't we make you one for this year? And then you'll always remember your Christmas with us."

Scorpius could hug her.

He does.

Mrs Potters hugs aren't anything like his dad's. Draco always seems just the smallest bit surprised when Scorpius hugs him, there's always a beat of hesitation. But Ginny hugs back instantly, and she's soft and warm and it feels like a bubble bath.

"Let me just get this up, we'll get it decorated, and then we'll take the pic," he hears Harry say. "Draco, how're those beads coming?"

"Frustratingly," says Draco. "But steadily. I think. Though beads on a tree, Potter? Really?"

"If you hadn't already noticed, we're not really going for the height of sophistication here. Alright! Done! Let's get this tree dressed!"

There's a huge scrabble, like a surging wave, as all the Potters grab for handfuls of bright decorations and go at the tree in one big swoop; hooking them anywhere they can reach – Lily only managing the lowest branches whilst James and Albus fight for who can get theirs highest, with James winning by a mile.

"Come on Malfoys," says Ginny, pulling Draco up by the hand. "Do your bit."

The beads are still an awful tangle, but no-one seems to care. Harry and Draco spread them out as much as possible, turning them into a sort of net that gets draped nearer the back so it's still there without completely ruining everything.

The Davinports' house is beautiful. It reminds Theo a lot of his grandmother's home – large and grand without being inhospitable. And, against his will, Theo finds himself settling in. He doesn't dislike Andrew as much as he had been determined to and, surprisingly, Pansy doesn't seem as contemptuous of her husband as she always claimed to be.

Indeed, Pansy at home is very different to Pansy, well, anywhere else.

She is softer, happier, even, and more at ease than Theo's ever seen her. Even at Hogwarts. And they've known each other a very long time. She is still herself – there's no pretense – but maybe that's the point. Maybe this is really her without any of the covers she usually so carefully drapes herself in.

And Andrew very clearly adores her.

Theo has spent his days recently just watching the two of them. Andrew's been home more, having taken off a week for Christmas – something that, previously, Pansy had been rolling her eyes at in derision and claiming that she was dreading it – but far from his presence being stifling and awkward, Theo found that the man just fits. Obviously, it is his home and if anyone was not going to fit, it was going to be Theo the interloper, but Andrew didn't make Theo feel awkward either. He just got on with whatever it was he was getting on with, accepted that Theo was there for the time being, and just seemed to generally genuinely enjoy life.

It is baffling.

It is inspiring.

Most baffling is that Pansy actually seems to quite like her husband after all and Theo is no longer completely *grossed out by the age difference.

They just sort of make sense together, in a way that Theo never pegged Pansy as making sense with anyone. To his mind, she'd always been like Blaise – someone who preferred to be with people on her own. He'd thought that her union with Andrew was for money and nothing more. That was certainly the story she maintained. And that was probably true in the beginning.

It comes as a surprising relief to Theo that it might be different, that Pansy might actually be truly happy. That she might have actually found someone who truly loves her.

So fucking lucky.

Pansy leans against him, lying lengthways on the sofa, holding her book aloft as Andrew lights the tiny candles that glitter like stars around the room with the tip of his wand. Christmas is sedate here. Peaceful. They don't host, preferring to be invited and participate without being left with any of the aftermath, which means the pressure is off. Theo's gran loved hosting, and her parties were always organized chaos – the focus being on chaos – and a bit much for Theo who was only willing to deal with people so far. As long as he could hide under a quiet table with Draco, Pansy and Blaise, he managed. But if he'd grownup here, in a house like this… that might've suited him a little better.

He looks down at the top of Pansy's head, and wonders if kids will ever be a consideration in the future.

Probably not.

Which is, in Theo's opinion, a bit of a shame. She would be a much better mother than she thinks she would be. Certainly much better than her own. But that's not really saying much.

Christmas without kids is weird. Spooky, even.

Fuck he misses Scorpius.

Theo's been there, every Christmas of that kid's life. He might not be Theo's by blood, but no-one could possibly love him half as much as Theo does – Draco excluded, obviously – it's so fucking unfair.

The paper in his pocket pulses.

He keeps forgetting it's in his hands now.

He's not used to being in control, not really one for taking risks either.

What if it's a trap?

What if Draco doesn't know?

What if he doesn't want to see you?

Why the hell would he want to see you?

Why would he let you anywhere near his son after what you've done?

After what you've done.

Pansy looks at him upside-down. "Something the matter, darling?"

"No. I'm fine. Just… hiccups."

"Unpleasant," says Pansy, returning to her book.

"Indeed." Then, "Hey?"

"Mmm?"

"Blaise coming over later?"

"I believe so. If he remembers."

"What time?"

Pansy sighs, and splays the book open on her chest. "Whatever time he sees fit to grace us with his presence, I'm sure."

"So, later, then."

"Yes, probably, Theo. Later. Why?" Her eyes are narrowed in mild suspicion. She looks so different without makeup. Not better, not worse, just different.

"I was thinking about going out for a bit."

"Where?"

"You're not my mother."

"Theodore."

Theo catches Andrews eye and sees the laugh there.

"Just a wander."

"Do you think that's wise? Or safe?"

"Probably not."

"But you're going it anyway."

"Probably yes."

"Your funeral."

Theo stands and kisses her cheek. "Cheers."

"Mmm," says Pansy, half disapproving, half smiling. "Be careful, idiot."

The tree is eclectic.

Draco stands back and admires it, made breathless by its glory.

There isn't an inch of tree left visible beneath the thick covering of every decoration in the box. Truly, he's amazed it can even stand beneath the weight of it all. Or, he was until Harry very quietly told him about all the spells holding it together.

"After James nearly pulled the whole thing down on top of himself five years ago, we had to take precautions."

All is quieter now. All is peaceful.

The music has become soft and orchestral, a lilting lullaby in the background, and the hubbub has dwindled down to awe as Harry and Ginny finish off the tree by lighting the tiny star-like candles hidden within the branches, whole thing set a-twinkling.

Draco strokes Scorpius's hair absently. It really does feel like Christmas, though nothing like any Christmas he's experienced before.

This is the start of something new.

Their first Christmas.

Harry glances towards them, and nods back towards the tree with a glint in his eye. "Want to do the honours?"

Draco blinks, blank.

"The star," says Ginny. "The most important part of the tree."

"Really?" Draco pinkens. "You want us to—"

Scorpius pulls eagerly on his arm, vibrating with excitement.

Draco lifts him up, almost perching him on his shoulder to be high enough. He offers Scorpius his wand and they hold it together, leaning in – a little precariously – to touch the tip to the star.

"Make a wish," Albus pipes at their side. "Whoever lights the star gets the first Christmas wish."

As light passes from Draco, through Scorpius, through the wand and into the star, bringing it to life with a glow so warm and bright it feels real, they both make their ardent wishes.

"Was it a good one?" Harry asks as Draco sets Scorpius back down on his feet.

"I can't tell you that, Potter. It won't come true."

"Fair point."

Draco pockets his wand. "But yes, actually, it was a good one."

Harry claps him briefly on the shoulder and grins. "Good."

"Can we do the picture now?" Albus asks. "Before Lily falls asleep."

"Might be a bit late for that," says Ginny with a laugh, scooping Lily up who'd been curled up under the tree for a bit longer than anyone had noticed. "Let's have dinner, then we'll do the picture. Give everyone time to do what they need to do to get ready." She looks pointedly at her sons whose faces are covered in chocolate. "Go wash your faces."

"But Mum—"

"It's Christmas—"

"Not yet it isn't. You know that doesn't fly until Christmas Eve."

"And Santa's already got his eyes on you," says Harry, standing besides Ginny with his arms folded. "He doesn't deliver to kids who don't wash their faces."

Still whining their duet of protest, Albus and James drag themselves upstairs to the bathroom.

To Draco's surprise, Scorpius runs after them – any evidence of his own chocolate consumption already wiped in his sleeve.

Scorpius doesn't have the word for 'Santa', and he's not much good at spelling at all, but he's desperate to ask. He follows Albus and James's clattering footsteps as they race each other to who get to the bathroom first. James cheats by shoving Albus into the doorframe, and Albus falls back, panting and scowling.

You are so lucky, he signs when Scorpius catches up with him, not having a brother.

Doesn't seem so bad, says Scorpius tentatively. Not very long ago, he would've agreed adamantly that yes, he was very lucky not to have a James. But Albus's brother isn't so bad now. Even after punching him in the face. Scorpius is still a bit certain that James deserved the punch, but he's also more certain that his dad's right and no-one should ever hit anyone ever for any reason at all. Draco made them shake hands after going back inside, and after that James has been alright. And not the weird sort of alright he was before. Scorpius thinks Albus's brother might even respect him a bit, and maybe that's to do with punching him in the face but probably more to do with the fact that Scorpius got his magic in before he did, even though James is older. Albus has taken Scorpius's magic as a personal victory, almost as if it were his own.

Go on, show me, he keeps saying, even though he knows perfectly well that Scorpius isn't able to control it even a bit yet. Soon, he'll ask his dad to start teaching him ways of practicing, but it seems like everyone's busy enough as it is right now.

I hope I get my magic before James does, Albus signs longingly as they wait for James to take his own sweet time at the bathroom sink. Then I'll really get my revenge.

What's… that word that you said?

Albus's head tilts. Revenge?

No, the one downstairs.

"Huh? Which one?"

Scorpius's fingers stall. The one your dad said's got his eyes on you.

"Oh," says Albus, lighting up. "Santa?" He spells it carefully with his fingers and Scorpius copies, feeling the shape of the word.

What's Santa?

You don't have Santa?

Scorpius shakes his head. He doesn't like how baffled Albus looks.

I thought Santa visited everyone in the whole world, he signs, frowning. That's what Mum and Dad say. "Hey, James?"

"I'm still in here."

"Yeah but hurry up."

"Yeah but I'll take as long as I want?"

"We need to talk about Santa."

James appears immediately; his face still covered in chocolate. "What about Santa?"

"Scorp doesn't have him."

"What?" James stares at him with the same big-eyed incredulity as Al. "Seriously? That's super sad."

Scorpius goes bright red. Why?

"Cos Santa goes to everyone," Albus repeats.

"All the good kids anyway."

What? Scorpius's fingers are a frantic blur. This is getting worse and worse.

Yeah, Al signs. He goes around the whole world on Christmas Eve and he has a list of who's been bad and who's been good, and the good kids get presents in their stockings on Christmas morning, and you've got to write a letter to him and put it out with a glass of milk and two mince pies.

I've never put out a glass of milk and two mince pies…

"Well there you have it," says Albus triumphantly, throwing his hands up as though all is explained and well. "That'll be why, then."

"Why?" says James, who refuses to catch onto any sign language at all.

"Because he doesn't put out milk and mince pies."

"Ah," says James. "Yeah. That'll be why then."

Scorpius thinks that's a pretty poor reason not to get presents when everyone else in the actual whole world gets presents.

More to the point, why does everyone else in the actual whole world know that putting out milk and mince pies gets you presents except him?

Scorpius stomps down the stairs and glares furiously at his dad until Draco looks at him.

What's the matter, Scorp?

Why didn't you tell me about milk and mince pies?

Draco looks back at him like he has no idea what Scorpius is talking about.

So Scorpius spells it out for him, S.A.N.T.A

"Santa?"

Scorpius nods vigorously.

The confusion does not go away even a little bit. I don't know what that is, Scorp.

Yes you do. You have to. Because everyone knows except for me. Everyone in the actual whole world.

I'm not lying to you.

Scorpius pouts, because he knows that's true and he doesn't necessarily want it to be true.

"What's that face for?" says Harry, plonking the antlers back on his head. "No-one should look like that at Christmas."

S.A.N.T.A

"Oh. Oh." Harry reaches understanding before anyone else does. "I am so sorry, I completely forgot. Should've mentioned that. My bad."

"Explanation, Potter?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure." There's a bit where it seems like Harry's thinking very very fast. "So, it's a Muggle thing," he tells Scorpius, crouching down so they're at the same height and Mr Potter's talking just to him. "And we get Santa because we're in a Muggle neighborhood, right?"

Scorpius nods slowly. That makes sense.

"So that'll be why you've probably never heard of him. And why your dad didn't tell you, because he probably doesn't know anything about Santa either. Right?"

Above them, Draco nods.

"But since you're here, I bet Santa's going to visit you too. You won't be able to see him, he's invisible, but when you wake up on Christmas morning, I bet your stocking'll be filled with all sorts of great stuff."

Scorpius looks Mr Potter right in the eye. Really?

"Yup. Absolutely really."

Scorpius thinks about this long and hard for a moment, then nods. Okay.

"Better start planning that letter," Harry calls after him when he runs off again.

Draco shakes his head. "I'm so confused."

Harry laughs. "Yeah, Gin was too. But Santa's an important part of childhood. I can't believe Wizarding kids miss out on the best bit of Christmas."

"So this man," says Draco, working it through in his head. "He only visits Muggle children, but is he magical? Surely he must be to—"

"It isn't real, Draco."

The whisper is so quiet and conspiring, Draco barely catches it the first time. "Not—"

"Ssh." Harry presses a finger to his lips. "They all still believe. I reckon James'll work it out by next year, but so far we're safe."

"This sounds very stressful, Potter."

"A bit," Harry admits. "But it's worth it."

"For the children?"

"Yup, that's it."

"That's amazing," says Draco, shaking his head and frowning. "That's magical. Why on earth wouldn't we do something like that?"

"Because the Wizarding World treats its kids terribly." Harry bumps his shoulder to Draco's. "Come on, that's old news."

Draco bobs his head wearily. "If you'd told me five years ago, a year ago, that one day I'd be thinking the Muggle world is a far better place than the Wizarding World… Dear Merlin."

"I mean, it's still shit," says Harry. "Don't get me wrong. There're pros and cons to both. But the Wizarding World definitely isn't the great mecha-haven I thought it was. It's pretty dismal, actually. Mostly because there's no Santa and that's just bloody tragic."

"So who brings the presents if Santa isn't real?"

"We do," says Harry. "Very sneakily. Lots of sneaking."

"And the children don't notice?"

"If they do, they're too sensible to say anything," says Harry with a wink. "Plus I have that very useful cloak. Don't have much use for it these days, but it's handy at Christmas. Some muggle parents dress up as Santa, whereas I can just be completely invisible. Very useful."

"Indeed."

"We'll have to get you both stockings," Harry muses.

"Both?"

"Of course! Grownups aren't left out."

"But I thought you said—"

"It's mostly for kids, but Ginny and I are visited too. And you, since you're here."

Draco shakes his head. "Amazing."

"Magical."

"Exactly."

"I shouldn't've told you it's not real," says Harry, wandering away into the kitchen where a pot can be heard bubbling aggressively. "Everyone should experience childish delight at least once in their lives. Even if they have to wait until they're twenty-five."

Draco wanders after him and helps himself to sherry.

To him, this is what Christmas smelled like.

He sips steadily.

It tastes like his mother's smile, her laugh, her bright eyes as his father caught her hand and pulled her to him. They were at their best at Christmas. It was their holiday. Draco might not have had Santa, but his Christmas mornings were still full of the thrill of the day, the hope and expectation that it would be a good day, when Snape would be there and his father would be in a good mood and his mother would kiss him without reservation, because no-one's too old to be kissed on Christmas. Even boys. Even Malfoys.

Alcohol made his parents giddy in a good way, carefree as they never were the rest of the year. Draco loved it. Loved them. And he felt like they loved him too. As long as nothing went wrong. And Draco always worked hard to make sure nothing went wrong. Though, really, that depended on his grandmother and how quickly she could ruin his father's mood. She only came to the Manor twice a year, once in the middle of summer to escape the oppressive European heat-wave, and at Christmas. Summer was always hell, but it was easier to escape into the garden when it was sunny. Winter trapped him. She always started out reasonably well; resolving to hold her tongue and resist offering critique, and his father always resolved to ignore her and refuse to rise to her inevitable jabs.

Both inevitably failed.

Nothing was good enough for Seraphina Malfoy. As far as she was concerned, her son was running the Manor into the ground, ruining the reputation that had been centuries in the making, undoing all the good work Abraxas had done and – of course – raising a complete disgrace of an heir.

It all depended at what point in the day the thorny issue of Draco came up.

If it was late enough, after bed-time or even nearing it, he was more or less safe. He'd lie awake at the end of Christmas, listening to voices rising up through the floorboards; heart catching in his throat every time he thought he heard his name, which sounded like every other indistinct word. But as long as he wasn't down there, out of sight and out of reach, he was – more or less – safe, and his father would take out all the frustrations piled on him by Seraphina on whichever house-elf was unfortunate enough to be closest to hand. If it was still early—

"Come here, boy, and let me look at you."

She grabbed his chin and pushed his head back until he was looking at the candles glittering in the chandelier, tilting his face this way and that as his father sat at her side and saw everything she was seeing; their noses crinkles in identical expressions of disgust.

"Look at me."

Draco dragged his gaze to meet his grandmother's.

She sighed and released him. "He has a weak nose, Lucius."

"His mother's," Lucius muttered, sipping his brandy.

"You will blame Narcissa for the state of him?" she snapped. "It is a father's duty—"

"Mother."

"Don't you roll your eyes at me. It is no wonder that boy is in such disgraceful shape with you as his role-model. If your father was alive, he would not stand for this. He would—"

"I know precisely what Father would do, thank you."

"And if he were here you would never dare interrupt me." Her attention whipped back to Draco as he made a poor attempt to move away. "You are not dismissed, boy. Come here."

"Draco, obey your grandmother. You know better than that."

"Apparently he does not. I wonder from whom he learnt such impertinence."

"I have been trying—" The inevitable grab to the wrist. Draco gritted his teeth, concentrating on trying to remember to breathe. "—train it out of him."

"He is too willful for an inexpert effort. You'll never manage. He is too much like you."

Watch me try, the grip on his wrist said.

If stuck in said grip, caught between his father and grandmother, the week between Christmas and New Year was inevitably painful. Alcohol made his father giddy, but by the end of a long day, worn down by his grandmother, he was dangerous. There is no beating about the bush on that fact, and Draco is an expert in avoiding the truth of matters concerning his childhood, when at all possible.

Those Christmases are the few times he can look back and admit, yes, grudgingly, 'abuse' might be an apt descriptor.

Draco sips at the sherry that reminds him of his mother and tries not to think about his father.

There is a hush outside the window. Snow. Draco loves snow.

He moves to the sink and leans heavy on it, feeling a little numbed. Harry and Ginny are standing side by side at the stove, leaning against one another as they finish cooking something that smells wonderful. The kids are in the living room, lit only by the tree.

Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright.

Draco closes his eyes and breathes.

And then—

"Mr Malfoy!"

He wheels and runs, certain that it's Scorpius and something terrible is happening, they've been found, been caught, it's over it's over it's—

But Scorpius is at the window.

And his excitement is radiant.

Can't do anything but point, not even sign.

Just pointing and pointing.

Look look look!

"What is it?"

Draco joins his son, cupping his hands between his eyes and the glass to peer out.

The snow is thick and the glass is fogged by their breath.

"I can't see—"

Scorpius pulls at Draco's arm sleeve and, when Draco looks at him, signs, Theo.

There were several ridiculous hours between leaving Pansy's house and following the address on the note. Theo figured that hurrying was bad and he wasn't going to do it. No point. Take time and think it over. Patience. Patience.

Theo had practiced patience until he was run completely try, and then Apparated. Just like that.

He expected to appear outside a house marked Twenty-Six – you know, the one on the address? – but there was nothing.

There were houses, a whole damn row of them that looked identical.

He identified Twenty Five and Twenty Seven.

But Twenty Six proved elusive.

Objectively, Theo knew it was there, but any time he tried to approach it just…sort of… slid away. Like a fish.

Fuck.

Theo pulls the collar of his coat up high, cursing this place and Potter and Draco.

It's too fucking cold for these games, and hasn't he been played enough?

He's a hundred percent ready to give up and turn around and Disapparate back to Pansy's where he'll admit what he's done and let them call him stupid, when a sound catches his attention.

It's just small.

Almost lost in the whisper of the snow.

Just a door.

And then, "Theo?"

Draco.

He's there before Theo has time to turn, has time to be sure.

Really there.

Really real.

Alive.

In one piece.

Fingers gripping Theo's arms, his shoulders, his face, as though trying to prove that he's real too. As though he also cannot be certain. Doesn't dare hope.

Touching his cheek with warm hands, searching his eyes with an impossible smile.

Kissing him.

And it's real.

A/N: I'M NOT CRYING YOU'RE CRYING SHUT UP (JK this is the first time they've been together since ch.1, I was a mess writing this!)